


Pulmonary

by philomel



Category: Firefly
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-13
Updated: 2011-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 00:46:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philomel/pseuds/philomel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Authority means nothing, except when it’s Mal’s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pulmonary

In the space of his hands, there was the power to catch and release breath. This unseen potency, faster than the deft dives of a needle, quicker than the keenest eye. This? Might as well be God, for all it meant right now.

Mal didn't really believe in either thing, God or that power. But if on occasion he could take one for granted, then on occasion he could take the other.

The occasions wherein he was close enough to be taken were too many. It seemed every time he turned around, Simon's breath spurred hot on his face. Accusations, challenges, always questioning, questioning, questioning instead of _doing_. Such annoyance need be met with further annoyance; Mal knew no other way. He had given in once, and that was enough — acquiescence went against his nature. So from now on he was pushing back. It didn't matter what the reason, didn't matter what Simon had to say.

So when he said it this time, Mal was ready. He had words too, but they were decoys. His words came closer, but his hands came closer still.

Simon's shoulder folded into a hinge of metal on the deck, like he could tuck himself away. His mouth hung open, his tongue stuttering against his teeth. But it was only air and wet clicking. The back of Mal's throat felt dry, so he waited. This time Simon didn't push back, didn't punch, didn't spit smooth venom with the eloquence of education, didn't even walk away. He just stood there, eyes dark under Mal's shadow.

His move now.

This was where he walked away. But the cue was wrong.

Mal felt his heels twist in his boots, prompting a spin. Still, he faced forward, faced this open mouth below his tight lips. On a hair trigger, as always, he reacted first, thought later. And there he found himself a second later, bracing his balance, hands on the metal bannister, arms stretched out on either side of Simon. Yet it was Simon who held him up, torso to torso. And it was Simon who threatened to let him fall, as they each held their breath, chests pressed together. Stuck, staring into each other.

His endurance usually surprised even himself, but here it surprised him newly. Simon blinked first, but Mal was the one who exhaled, taking that false cue and now rocking against him, jagged air ripping out of his lungs and spooling back in. And now Simon, too, was panting beneath him. It was only the breath that moved between them, but it was everything. It moved them closer, closer until Simon came near enough that Mal could no longer see him at all: the distinct line of his face had flattened into a wide blur of background. Mal pushed into it, this shapeless plane. Pushed into it with his hips — hard, hard, hard. Their skin met, moved and Simon slid back into foreground.

Hands clamped down on Mal's wrists, digging his palms into the angle of metal railing. He didn't realize his eyes had closed until he was staring again at Simon, blinking blearily at his face pulling back, opposite to the direction of his hips. Simon shoved forward below, belt buckle driving bluntly into Mal. Pressure on pressure. And all the while, he looked to be smiling.

The pompous sonofabitch.

This face? He was supposed to wear. Not Simon. The man had a coldness that Mal longed to burn, just as much if not more so than he longed to tear Serenity across the sky like a struck match. In her path, there would be vapor trails, then nothing. He wondered how much he could mark Simon and not leave a permanent scar. Or had the doctor become so adept at tending his own wounds, no one would see where someone had got in his flesh?

Would it matter now if he pulled him down or if he walked away? Mal weighed the options: which would hurt more.

But he knew so much more about running, not what remained after he left.

So he did. And, besides his footsteps ringing on the crossed metal, he could only hear his own breath. It was the only thing he ever could control.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: foxxcub.


End file.
